


Bad Company

by BeerPongandPie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coercion, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, M/M, Pre-Series, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-03-02 06:56:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18806023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeerPongandPie/pseuds/BeerPongandPie
Summary: An attempt to escape his father and brother's fighting for one night leaves Dean vulnerable to a predator he wasn't prepared to hunt. One that was, instead, hunting him. He has to fight to stay alive and stay himself until help arrives.Easier said than done.





	1. Waiting in Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dark and will have all kinds of potentially triggering material. Please heed the tags. 
> 
> The story is set roughly in the year 1996. Dean is 17 by just a few months (thus the underage tag). The first few chapters of the story are complete, the rest are in progress. I do not have a Beta, so all mistakes are my own.

The predator paced the room and made one final check of all the necessary preparations. Tonight had to be perfect. Each attempt took weeks to plan and scout. Another delay would be costly, tedious, and with each passing day, the hunger grew to near-blinding proportions. 

It was all consuming.

It was fury and fire.

It was time…


	2. Neon Dreams

The neon signs outside a bar cheerfully named Bad Company beckoned Dean inside. What he mostly wanted was no company, but he’d settle for what he could get. Inside, the air was cool and heavily scented with smoke, booze, and the dust of the road. Precisely what he needed after the heat and cacophony he’d just left.

The noise inside the motel room had reached a decibel Dean hadn’t heard since the Impala’s tape deck crapped out and ate his Physical Graffiti cassette, pulling Jimmy Page’s guitar tones out into unholy wails. Looking back, that had actually been kind of cool. This? This was not so much. Sam and Dad had been at it for nearly an hour before Dean called it quits, each seeming determined to out-shout the other. Dean was sick of it. Had been sick of it since it started over... what, this time? The choice of motel? Dinner? Color of socks? 

Who the fuck remembered anymore. It was all one big scream fest and he was thoroughly done with being trapped in the middle. He’d slipped out the door and hoofed it to the bar furthest from the motel, but still within walking distance.

“Beer,” he said to the man behind the bar and slipped up onto a stool. 

The bartender was well beyond middle aged, his long, scraggly hair shot through with gray and pulled back into a biker’s ponytail. The man eyed him from beneath heavy brows, clearly weighing his choices. There was a fake ID in Dean’s wallet that gave his age as twenty-one, but he didn’t feel like presenting it. After the shit he’d put up with tonight, he deserved a beer. Hell, he deserved a whole case if he wanted it. 

He eyed the bartender right back and waited.

“Sure,” the older man grunted, shrugged and turned to fill a mug from a tap. Maybe it was because they were at the ass-end of a shitty desert town that was already at the ass-end of the world. Or maybe Dean just looked like it’d take too much effort to refuse him. Dean didn’t care which, so long as he got his drink and was left alone.

He nodded to the man, dropped a five dollar bill on the bar and immediately downed a third of the mug’s contents. It wasn’t the best beer he’d ever had, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that the bar was quiet, the mug was cold and relatively clean, and his father and brother were nowhere in sight.

It was almost like peace.

***

Well into his third beer, he was feeling looser. He was nowhere near drunk, but the alcohol was enough to achieve its intended effect. The tension in his shoulders subsided and his posture on the bar stool slouched nicely. When he breathed, he no longer felt tight cords clenched around his chest.

A metallic tap on the bar drew his attention. Dean turned his head just slightly to the right and saw a finger with one well-polished, shiny blue fingernail slide a coin across the worn wood to him.

“Quarter for your thoughts,” a pleasant, female voice offered.

Dean’s gaze traveled up from the finger, along the length of a pale arm, up to the woman’s face. She was easily ten years older than him -- late twenties, maybe? A total knock-out. Her black hair hung in loose waves to her shoulders. A deep blue cocktail dress clung to her figure in very nice ways that he appreciated thoroughly for a moment before he finally met her amused, blue eyes.

“Isn’t it a penny for thoughts?” He asked her, raising both eyebrows.

“That saying’s kind of old so I figured I’d adjust for inflation.” She smiled then and leaned closer. A faint whiff of flowers drifted across the smoky air and he drew in a deeper breath reflexively, his pulse jumping at the scent. If there was anything sexier than the smell of a woman’s perfume warmed by her skin, Dean didn’t know what it was. “Plus jukeboxes only take quarters anymore, so why carry pennies?”

“Beautiful and practical.” Dean said, swiveling on the seat to face her more directly. “Are you sure you’re in the right bar?”

At that thought, he glanced around. The bar’s other few patrons were once again lost in their own thoughts, if they’d ever looked up. The bartender looked puzzled, but dutifully stepped over to take the woman’s order.

“Jack and Coke,” she requested without hesitation. The man nodded and stepped away to pour. She looked back to Dean and gave a shrug that drew his attention well down below her face for a moment before he forced it back up. “I was supposed to be on a blind date tonight. One of those personal ad things?” She rolled her eyes and Dean shot her a sympathetic grin. “He never showed and I didn’t feel like paying restaurant prices for drinks. Especially when I don’t plan to remember any of this in the morning.”

Dean laughed and the bartender returned with her drink. Before she could pay, Dean dropped another bill on the bar. “My treat. Consider it an apology for guys being guys.”

“Such a gentleman.” She watched the bartender walk away and then extended a hand to Dean. “I’m Sasha.”

“Dean,” he answered, shaking her hand. Her skin was soft with long fingers and an easy grip. The night’s annoyances faded far away as his mind drifted over all the ways hands like that could be used.

“Here’s to long nights and fuzzy mornings,” she toasted, raising her glass. He picked up his mug and tapped it against hers. “Cheers.”

Suddenly, a little company didn’t seem so bad after all.

So, they had a drink. And then another and another. Dean found himself telling her about life on the road and all the trials that came with it. In turn, she told him about her controlling father and how she’d fled her home state to avoid him. 

“I haven’t spoken to him in… hmm…” Sasha tapped a nail against her glass, thinking. “Thirteen years, I think? Maybe longer.”

“Wow.” Dean shook his head, peering down into his glass. After his first beer with her, he’d switched to Jack and Coke. “I can’t imagine going that long without talking to my family.”

“No?” She asked, reaching a hand out to smooth down his forearm. He imagined he could feel the heat of the touch even through the leather.

“Nah. Dad needs me, even if he doesn’t always see it.” He shrugged, careful not to dislodge her hand. “My brat brother needs me, too.”

“What do _you_ need?” Sasha asked, her voice pitching low and sultry. Dean felt another jolt of heat through him. 

“Right now?” He asked, reaching across to tuck dark strands of hair behind her ear. “Just you.”

She smiled. Her hand slipped back up along his arm, over his shoulder, and curled behind his neck. He gave no resistance at all when she pulled him in and kissed him, her lips soft and the sweet taste of Coke syrup and Tennessee whiskey on her tongue. 

“I have a room not far from here,” she murmured when she pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. 

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Let’s get out of here.”

Dean watched her slip from her stool to her feet and smooth out the wrinkles in her dress. He tossed back the last of his drink, dropped a twenty on the bar, and slid an arm around her waist. They walked out of the bar and into the night, only listing a little with each step.

***

Dean’s head was swimming when they reached her room. The combined aromas of her perfume, the whiskey, and the scent that was just her teased and overwhelmed him. It was difficult to say if the liquor or the rush of blood from his brain to his cock was more to blame for the sudden dizziness, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

She shoved him against the door once they were inside and kissed him like their lives depended on it. Her lips were eager and needy against his and he groaned into the kiss, pulling her tight against him. 

“Clothes,” she gasped against his mouth. She fisted her hands in his jacket lapels and twisted, shoving him further into the room. Almost to the bed. He could feel the edge of the mattress against the back of his knees. “Off. Now.”

Dean loved a woman who took charge. There was something so sexy about being ordered to do the thing he most wanted to do. He grinned and did as he was told, quickly removing every last stitch of clothing and tossing it all onto a nearby chair. 

Sasha watched him eagerly, her eyes roving over every newly revealed inch of skin. When he was naked, she returned the favor, standing shamelessly in front of him on her two-inch heels and sliding down the zipper of her dress. She tutted at him when he tried to approach, so he stood where he was, his gaze fixed on her body as the dress slipped to the floor and he discovered that the dress was all she’d been wearing.

Gorgeous. She had some scars, but who didn’t? Her skin gleamed in the dim light of the room and he found himself staring at her in something close to awe.

“Want me to leave the heels on?” She asked, her voice teasing, but her eyes serious. He nodded, swallowing hard. God, yes, he did. “Good boy. Good answer. Now lie back. I want to ride you.”

Dean shivered at the praise and found himself shuffling back onto the bed as she ordered. A wave of relief swam over him when he laid back, arms stretched out at his sides, body sinking into the mattress. Fuck. He may have had too much to drink, after all. His body felt heavy and his eyelids were struggling to stay open.

His dick was having no such difficulty, he noted proudly. He gazed with lidded eyes down the length of his body and watched Sasha’s full lips wrap around the head of his fully hard cock and sucked him slowly down. Every nerve ending in his body was alight with sensation and he felt his toes curl and his fingers clench on the sheets beneath him, working hard to hold back. It couldn’t be over this quickly.

“Don’t you dare.” Sasha pulled off long enough to scold him. A sharp, stinging slap against his thigh finally pulled his eyelids fully open as she continued, “If you come before I get my ride I’m going to be very disappointed.”

“Nah,” he breathed, shifting on the bed and drawing a deep breath. “I’m good. C’mon.”

“Good,” she purred, voice going soft again. Her lips slipped down over him again and his back arched, breath coming sharp and fast as he fought to control his body’s desperate need for release.

It wasn’t usually this difficult. He really must have had too much to drink.

After a few torturous minutes of possibly the best blowjob he’d ever had, Sasha pulled off and began to crawl the length of his body. He felt heat and electricity all along his skin where their bodies touched. 

He watched her, eyes barely open. The sway of her breasts and play of her muscles under the skin made his mouth water and his body ache with desire. _Hurry_ , he wanted to beg. The words wouldn’t form. 

“Very good,” she said as she lifted herself to her knees and slowly guided his cock inside her. Dean groaned softly, just a breath of air, as he watched her sink down onto him.

Fuck. _Fuck, yes_.

She moved. Her hips rocked and ground down against him. Dean felt his cock go deep inside her and she was all heat and slickness around him. His hips shifted again. His body twisted slightly beneath her. 

It felt like a dream. It felt like floating -- if not for the scratchy motel bedspread under his back and Sasha’s rhythmic gasping above him as she rode him harder. He wanted to reach for her, hold onto her hips, to have some control over what they were doing, but his arms were like lead and he barely had the will to clench his fists in the bedclothes. 

“You’re doing so good,” he heard her breathe. “So good. You’re going to be so good.”

The tiny part of him still fighting for awareness questioned that. Going to be good for what?

The rest of him could only chase the orgasm he felt building low in his belly. Her frenetic movements kept pushing him, driving him closer and closer to release. There was a small voice in his head telling him to wait. To hold back. He was supposed to wait for… something. 

Wasn’t he?

“Come now,” she demanded. Her hips slammed down onto him and rolled in tight circles, grinding down against him. 

Dean’s breath hitched. His body arched ever so slightly as he came, pushing helplessly up into her, the sweet relief of orgasm washing over him in thick waves that pushed him deeper under consciousness.

“Yes,” he heard her as if from far off. “Perfect…”

He was too far gone, then, to hear a door swing open. Too far gone to hear footsteps approaching the bed. 

“Did he come?” A deep voice asked after a lengthy silence.

“Yes, Master,” Sasha answered, immediately. All her sultry tones were gone and only total complacency remained.

“Did you?” The man asked, the voice harsh.

“No, Master.”

“Good girl.” His voice was approving, then. Almost affectionate. “Get dressed. We have to hurry.”

The bed shifted as Sasha lifted herself off Dean and moved away to obey. Dean didn’t see the gaze that traveled the length of him, admiring his sweat and come slick skin, his flushed cheeks, his lithe, muscular body. He couldn’t feel the hand carding through his short, sweat-damp hair. 

“Perfect,” the man’s voice rumbled approvingly. “Just exactly what I’ve been looking for.”


	3. Concrete Nightmares

Consciousness came back to Dean in fits and starts. Fuzzy images of the backseat of a car (not his). Fuzzy sounds of voices (not his father, not Sam). Street lights rolled by outside windows. The sky lightened into day and sank into dark once more. Perhaps more than once.

When he finally woke with a semi-clear head, he felt cold. He lay on an uncomfortable, bare mattress. He was naked and goosebumps covered his skin. He rolled to one side and froze at the sound of chain links clinking together.

“The fuck…?” Dean sat up slowly, his head aching like it’d been used for a soccer ball. He reached up to rub his temples, but stopped short at his neck when the heaviness there finally registered. 

A wide, metal collar circled his throat. Dean’s fingers traced the edges around from the smooth front to the back where he expected to find a clasp. There was none. The two holes that would have been used to lock the collar closed was, instead, fastened with a thick, metal ring attached to a heavy chain. Dean turned the ring, fingers exploring it in the hopes of finding a seam to pry apart. His stomach sank when he found it was solidly welded together.

“Not good,” he breathed, struggling to keep his panic down. He reached for the chain and followed it from the collar to its opposite end. It was connected to a heavy eye-bolt sunk deep into the concrete wall of the room. An experimental pull told him that neither the chain nor the bolt was going anywhere.

Dean stood on wobbly legs and moved as far as the chain would allow. The room he was in was mostly bare, with cinder-block walls painted a flat gray color. The concrete floor was cold under his feet and there were a few red lines painted here and there. There were two small windows, one on the wall directly across from the cot and one to his right on a far wall. Both were high above his reach without some kind of assistance. Even if he could reach them, there was no way he’d ever fit his shoulders through.

The chain didn’t stretch that far, anyway.

One corner of the room housed the strangest bathroom he’d ever seen outside of a jail cell. There was a toilet and a sink in full view of the rest of the room. A shower stall without a door or curtain was built into the actual corner -- it was essentially just a tile square with a drain in the center and a shower head aimed at it from above. He saw no water controls for it.

On the fourth, final wall to his left, a set of carpeted stairs led up to a small landing, took a left turn and then continued up further into a dark stairwell. 

“Hey!” He shouted toward the stairs and flinched at the way his own voice bounced back to him off the walls. Thick walls. Walls made to suppress sound. 

“Fuck,” he moaned again and sat back down onto the cot. He put his aching head in his hands. How the hell did he end up here?

Bits of memories jangled around inside his skull. He remembered drinks. A woman. A motel room. Then mostly just images. Feelings. 

He’d definitely had sex. Awesome, sweaty sex. That much he remembered, although his skin was clean and soft now. That thought made his stomach turn again. Someone had cleaned him up while he was unconscious. 

The sinking sense of dread he’d felt from the moment he woke began to weigh even heavier on him. He was in a. Very. Bad. Situation.

The sound of a heavy door thudding shut made him sit up sharply. Pain lanced through his head, but he ignored it, listening instead to soft footfalls coming down the stairs. 

Dean scowled when he saw the shapely legs he’d admired in the bar. Sasha descended the stairs and he felt his scowl slide into confusion when he got a good look at her. She was as naked as he was, but not nearly so well cared for. There were bruises in the shape of large hands on her throat and a cut on her bottom lip made her lush mouth darker.

“What the fuck?” He demanded, not sure if he was asking about his own situation or hers.

Sasha sighed and came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs just before the red line painted on the floor. Dean pushed to his feet and approached her, stopping short where the chain ended. Also just before the red line. Boundary marks, he realized. 

“If you wanted another ride, you could have just asked,” he snapped at her, fear and confusion taking a momentary back seat to anger. “You didn’t have to kidnap me.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” He was struck by how different she sounded. The woman he’d met in the bar had been flirty and fun. The woman standing before him now was an empty shell. Her expression and her voice were flat. 

“Says who?” He demanded. He watched her tilt her head back, looking up to the ceiling. To the house above. “Who’s up there? Why are they doing this?”

Sasha shrugged and reached a hand up, idly tracing one finger over the bruises on her neck. “Our Master.”

“Who is your master?” He asked, dread returning. He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

She shook her head. “ _Our_ Master.” She gave him a significant look. “Obey him. He’ll kill you if you don’t.”

“Did you disobey?” He asked, nodding at her injuries.

“Of course not!” She glared at him, flicking a glance back at the stairs as if afraid to be overheard. “I always obey. Our Master loves me.”

“Uh huh.” Dean didn’t scoff, but only because he was rapidly becoming too freaked out to do so. He wracked his brain for what sort of monster he could be dealing with. What wouldn’t just kill outright?

“He does!” She snapped and then took several steps back, glaring daggers at him. “More than he’ll love _you_.”

 _Good_ , Dean thought, but chose not to say. He was chained to a wall and she was crazy. Crazy had the upper hand for the moment.

The sound of the door stopped both of them cold. Dean watched Sasha sink to her knees and drop her head, chin nearly to her chest. Without thinking, he took a few nervous steps back, unsure of what he’d see coming down those steps.

It was almost disappointing. It was…

A man.

Just a man. He was maybe Dean’s father’s age. Early or mid-forties? Sandy blond hair kept short. A serious face with neatly kept facial hair that was more seven-o-clock shadow than five. He looked athletic and strong in his t-shirt and jeans. He also looked hopelessly human. Normal. Not a monster at all.

“Who are you?” Dean demanded. He saw Sasha flinch, but she remained otherwise still and silent.

The man smiled. The smile sent a curl of fear through Dean. It was the smile of a patient, indulgent parent to an unruly child. He did not like how it felt. He especially didn’t like being naked and unarmed while it happened.

“You told my pet that your name was Dean. Your ID said John Bonham.” The man rested a hand on top of Sasha’s head and stroked her hair just like an obedient pet. His eyes danced with amusement. “Is Dean actually your name or are we truly in the presence of rock and roll royalty?”

“Fuck you,” Dean spat. “That’s my name.”

For a second, nothing happened. No one moved. If pressed, Dean would have said no one breathed.

Then the man moved. His arm lashed out, back handed, and struck Sasha on the side of her face. She was flung backwards and rolled onto her side with a whimper.

“I thought you said he was obedient?” The man inquired of her. His tone was almost casual in his inquiry.

“I thought he was, Master!” She answered, moving to crawl back to her place at his feet. “That night he seemed very obedient.”

“Hey,” Dean started weakly, unsure of what to say. It didn’t matter. The man slapped her again, knocking her almost to the red line on the floor. “C’mon! You want to hit somebody, I’m right here!”

The man ignored him. “You lied to me.” He sounded disappointed. 

Sasha sobbed, once again at his feet. “I’m sorry, Master! He tricked me!”

The man raised his arm again and Dean moved, bolting toward them, forgetting for a moment that he was restrained. He choked when he reached the end of his chain and nearly knocked himself off his feet. He fell to one knee, hands clawing at the collar as he coughed. 

The man lowered his hand and tipped his head to one side, considering Dean for a few seconds before stepping closer. He stayed just beyond the red line and crouched down, eyeing the younger man critically.

“Interesting,” he said. Dean glared up at him through watery eyes. “This could still work,” he pronounced after a moment and Dean heard Sasha’s sobbing hitch and saw a hopeful look appear on her face.

The man stood and stepped back over to Sasha. He took a fistful of her hair and hauled her to her feet, pulling painfully on the hair until she was standing on her toes to be at eye level with him.

“Instruct him,” the man ordered. “I expect to see a vast improvement when I get back. If I don’t, I’ll have to find a new one. And I’ll start with all new bait.”

“Y-yes, Master.” Sasha trembled in his grasp, then collapsed to the floor when he released her hair. He walked back upstairs without a backwards glance.

Dean and Sasha stared at one another across the painted, red line. Her lip trembled, but her eyes were full of fury. “You made him angry. You’re going to fix it.”


	4. Empty Spaces

Dean’s instruction was going… not well. 

“Help me,” Dean pleaded with her. He sat on the cot watching her pace just outside the range of his chain. She’d been careful to keep her distance. “Find some tools… a bolt cutter… anything. Get me out of here and I can help you get away from him. I can keep him from hurting you anymore.”

“He’s Our Master,” she snapped at him, glaring and shaking her head. “We obey because He loves us.”

Dean scoffed. “He’s a psycho!”

“He loves us,” she screamed. The look on her face was desperation. Fear. Loathing. Christ, how long had she been here? It was very apparent to him that there would be no reasoning with her. She was too far gone for that.

“Okay,” he soothed, hands up in placation. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

She watched him, suspicious. She was crazy, broken even, but not stupid. He knew she was going to take more convincing than a simple apology.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing, here,” he told her, trying to sound as gentle and sincere as he knew how. “I’ve never had a… a master before.” 

It would have taken a hell of a long time -- longer than he planned to be here -- for him to ever say ‘master’ without tripping over it. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to notice or care.

“You know what it means to obey, don’t you?” She questioned him, watching closely as she waited for an answer.

“Yeah,” he replied. The thought didn’t sit well with him. He’d been raised to obey commands, but he didn’t like how she used the word. Dean was sure there’d be no running miles and doing weapons drills involved here. Until now, he hadn’t let himself think too deeply about what he might have to do to survive until he got out of this. Or until Dad and Sam came looking for him. 

God, he hoped they were looking for him.

“Then you can figure it out pretty quick,” she told him, sinking down to sit on the floor. She didn’t seem to notice or mind the cold. “You belong to Him. You always belonged to Him, you just didn’t know before. That’s why you have so many bad habits, but He’ll teach you.”

Dean definitely didn’t like the sound of that.

“Teach me what?” 

“How to please Him.” Her tone suggested that was the most obvious thing in the world. Dean’s stomach twisted. 

He’d lost his virginity at fourteen. In the following three years, he’d gleefully enjoyed flings with girls and guys, although the guys were kept far from his family and very quiet. There was no way he’d let his Marine Corps father know he enjoyed getting his mouth on some other dude’s dick once in a while. Not to mention all the rest of the crap he got up to. 

The idea of fucking a guy didn’t really bother him all that much. Dean just preferred to be the one choosing who and when and how.

“Sex, you mean?” He asked and plastered on a cocky grin. “I can do that. I’m pretty good at it, actually. You may recall.”

She rolled her eyes. “It isn’t _just_ about sex. And that wasn’t my idea, either, it was his. I was just there to be the last.”

“The last?”

“Yes. The last time you come for your own pleasure. The last woman you touch. The last.” She shrugged, unconcerned by his growing disgust. “From now on, you exist to please Our Master. Your mind and your body are only for Him. If you please Him, you’re sometimes allowed pleasure, too. If you anger Him, you die.”

The cold that had been seeping into him turned all his bones to ice when he really thought about her words. “Sasha… you aren’t his first pet, are you?”

She shook her head. “No. There have been others. But, none that lasted as long as me.” He could hear the pride in her voice. It made him feel sicker.

“Good job,” he answered her weakly, then pushed on, forcing the words out past the disgust. “Tell me what I can do to please him so I can stay, too.”

He could do this. He’d do what it took to survive. Then, when the chance presented itself, he’d fucking kill that psycho and burn his goddamn bones.

“You must always be on your knees when you’re in His presence,” she began. Her voice had the most life he’d heard in it since he woke in this nightmare. “You always keep your eyes down. Only look when He tells you to.”

“Alright,” he agreed, nodding. Nothing he couldn’t handle. Hell, some attacks worked better from the ground up. “What else?”

“Never talk back.” He got a sharp glare at this and tried to look chagrined. He probably didn’t manage it. “Never. Your only answers are ‘yes, Master’ or ‘no, Master’ unless He asks for more. You must always tell the truth. He’ll know if you lie. You’ll be punished.”

“How?”

“Don’t ask that!” She snapped. “Just obey. Then you’ll never need to know.”

Dean grit his teeth and nodded. “Fine. Is that it?”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Of course not. When you’ve proven yourself and your love for Him, He’ll allow you to serve him more. You can go upstairs and cook, clean, keep the household.” She didn’t seem happy about it. Dean realized that if he did get moved upstairs and into the believed pet spot, that probably didn’t leave a whole lot of room for her.

Dean watched her get to her feet. “When the Master wants you, He’ll have you and you submit. When He gives an order, you obey. That’s all there is to it, really.”

She turned to go and suddenly, Dean found that he didn’t want her to. He didn’t want to be alone in this tomb of a room. “Wait!”

She didn’t turn back. At the landing, she paused and reached for a panel on the wall. He hadn’t noticed it before. There were various dials and switches, and she twisted one knob sharply. Dean heard the overhead vents kick on and felt a blast of icy air on his bare skin. Then she flipped a switch and plunged the room into near-total darkness. Only the light from the tiny windows remained and he could see that it was fading fast.

“Sasha, wait!” he called, panic climbing into his voice.

“My name isn’t Sasha.” He heard her voice float across the dark room, just as dead and empty as the space seemed to be. “I don’t have a name. Neither do you. You’d better get used to it.”

A moment later, the door thudded closed again upstairs and Dean was alone.


	5. Grasping at Straws

In a desert town some four hundred miles away, a frantic father searched for a trace, a hint, a lead… anything that would tell him what happened to his son. 

John Winchester initially chose to stop in the sleepy little Arizona town precisely for its remoteness, small population, and distance from pretty much everything. It seemed like a perfect spot to lay low after their last hunt went sideways and they’d called down a little too much attention from the authorities. It was safe. It was logical. 

Naturally, Sam was having none of it. At thirteen, the kid was starting to question every single decision his father made. It was making John insane. With Dean, no such issue ever occurred. His oldest was obedient and loyal almost to a fault. Dean would smash himself to pieces to complete his father’s orders. Sam, on the other hand, had no qualms about sharing his opinions on the matter. Any matter. All matters.

It was exhausting.

John and Sam had begun to fight so much that John couldn’t really tell anymore where one argument ended and the next began. It was just one, long disagreement that (to his unvoiced shame) only ever really eased off when Dean intervened.

To his further shame, that was what first tipped him off that something was wrong. Dean went out sometimes, sure. The kid was seventeen and had teenage needs to meet. John tried not to begrudge him that and tried _very hard_ not to think too much on who Dean might be sharing a bed with at any given time. As long as everyone was consenting and safe about it, he tried to let the kid do his thing. And Dean always came back after. Always.

Until he didn’t. 

John didn’t remember Dean leaving the room two nights ago. Neither did Sam. And when Dean didn’t return the next day, John had all sorts of speeches and additional chores planned for the kid when he finally did drag in. Serve him right for worrying them. Then another night passed and all thoughts of punishment vanished. A cold pit of worry opened in the bottom of John’s stomach. 

Dean _always_ came back. Something was _wrong_. Bad wrong.

It took John just four hours in his FBI persona to canvas the town. The hardest part had been convincing Sam to stay out of it. He could pass himself off as an authority with ease, but not with a teenager dogging his steps. In the end, they’d compromised (Dean would be so proud of them) and Sam stayed in the car, watchful and hopeful as each new interview turned up nothing.

John slid behind the wheel of the Impala and heaved a sigh, running his hands down his face in frustration. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sam’s shoulders sink further. John turned to his youngest son, a drill sergeant’s rallying words on the tip of his tongue. Seeing Sam look so defeated, though… he couldn’t do it.

“We’ll find him, Sammy.”

Sam’s eyes were clear when he looked up, but John could see the loss there. “It’s been over forty-eight hours, Dad. The odds of finding him…”

“That’s cop statistics,” John interrupted with a lopsided grin. “They don’t know what we know.”

Sam grinned back just for a second, then it faded. “We know there’s worse things than murderers.”

“Yeah,” John nodded, some of his momentary good cheer fading. “We do. But, we also know how to hunt those things and _Dean_ knows how to fight them. If something took your brother, we’ll find it and we’ll find him.” Sam didn’t look entirely convinced. “I promise, Sam. We are going to get your brother back.”

Sam nodded slowly and smiled again, bigger, maybe a little bit fake, but bigger. “Okay, Dad. Let’s find him.”


	6. Cold Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are very bad things in this chapter. Sexual violence type things. Please take the tags and warnings seriously.

A couple years ago Dean helped his dad track a skinwalker through the woods in a remote part of Michigan. It was mid-winter, cold as fuck, and everything was frozen. Including Dean. What hadn’t been frozen was the lake Dean tried to cross following the tracks. One second he was barely keeping his footing across the snow-covered ice and the next he was plunged into the freezing water below. 

It seemed like time stopped. Dean couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The water was dark and pressed in on him like he’d been buried alive and it felt as though every beat of his heart forced shards of ice deeper into his chest. Seconds later, instinct kicked in and he’d thrashed his way to the surface to be pulled to safety by his father. Those seconds under that water and the intervening time until he’d finally, _finally_ gotten warm again, had been one of the most terrible experiences of his life.

Lying on a bare mattress in some crazy fuck’s basement, Dean couldn’t help but think back to that. Intellectually, he knew that the basement room couldn’t possibly be as cold as the bottom of a frozen lake, but… tell that to his blue fingertips and the permanent coat of goosebumps he wore on his arms and legs and, well, everything.

At first, he’d fought it. Fighting was what he knew and what he did best, after all. Keep moving, keep the heart rate up, keep his body warm. It kept him going for a while. The life he led didn’t leave any room to be out of shape and he’d used his fitness to his advantage for hours, walking, jumping, doing whatever he could to keep warm. The problem with the strategy was that he couldn’t keep going forever. Once he stopped, the chill in the air and the sweat on his body from his exertion did him absolutely no favors.

Dean tried to take only short rests. Tried to keep going. It seemed like the icy, concrete floor and the chill in the air just sucked the life from him. Every time he sat on the cot for “just a minute”, that minute turned into more. Eventually, he’d found himself huddled into a ball on the cot, arms and legs drawn in tight, desperately trying to hold onto something like a normal body temperature.

The room stayed dark. It stayed cold. Between the two, Dean caught himself drifting in and out of awareness, taking longer and longer to remember where he was and why. 

It took him much longer than he liked to realize that the sound of the vents blowing stopped. He couldn’t have said when it stopped. The next sound he heard was the door at the top of the stairs opening and closing. He was too cold and too tightly curled up to flinch.

A glance at the windows told him nothing. It was dark outside, but he couldn’t have said if it was night or early morning. _Which_ night or day was a mystery, too. For all he knew, weeks could have--

No.

No fucking way. Dean wouldn’t allow himself to think like that. Hell, with a man like John Winchester looking for him, he should be out of there in just a couple days. A week tops.

_Come on, Dad, please._

In the silence that followed the sound of the door, Dean let himself hope that the next sound he heard would be his father’s voice. It wasn’t.

“Time to wake up,” the man’s voice called almost gently to him. Dean’s jaw clenched and he fought to get cold, stiff muscles to move, but cramps seized up his arms and legs. So much time spent in that one position, in the cold, his body wasn’t ready to obey his commands just yet.

Inwardly, he cursed. Physically, he remained silent. 

“Are you awake?” The man asked, voice closer. Dean wished he could see him. After a beat, Dean forced himself to answer. 

“Yes… master.” The word tasted like grave dirt on his tongue. 

“Good.” The sheer level of pleasure laced through that one word made Dean’s skin crawl.

Then, Dean felt the cot shift and a body settle in behind him. A body curled in along his back and he felt the press of warm, bare skin against his frozen back. Arms encircled him. They were strong and combined with the solid chest against his back, Dean felt even more confined than he had by the collar. If he could have moved, he might have struggled from the sheer panic the feeling brought.

“My good boy,” the voice purred in his ear. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

Dread clenched Dean’s gut tight, but he took a deep breath and forced himself not to react. He’d known as soon as he woke naked and chained that this was inevitable. Sasha had made the point even more abundantly clear. Dean had spent the time he’d been lucid in the cold and dark just psyching himself up for this moment. It was _just sex_. He could do it and deal with it and he’d be just fine. And when he had his moment, he’d make the guy pay dearly for it. All he had to do was survive until then.

Lips moved over the back of his shoulder and neck. The man’s beard scratched rough with every kiss and nip. He wasn’t entirely naked. There was bare skin against Dean’s back, but at his waist he felt the soft touch of cotton. Sleep pants or something similar, maybe. There was no mistaking the erection straining them, pressing against his ass, though.

“Turn over.” 

Dean forced tight and trembling limbs to uncurl and he turned himself over onto his stomach, fingers curling around the edge of the mattress. 

“Good,” the man praised again. Weight settled against the back of Dean’s legs. Broad, strong hands moved over Dean’s back and shoulders. He felt teeth set into the back of his neck, hard enough to bruise. His ass was palmed, hands kneading and squeezing the muscles. Dean’s hands clenched tighter on the mattress. His breathing hitched.

A thumb brushed against his tight hole. His hips jerked, reflexively pulling away from the touch.

The mouth and hands left his skin and for a second, Dean was relieved. A sharp yank on the chain pulled his head back, his throat closing as the metal collar pressed in against it. Dean’s hands scrabbled at the collar.

“ _No,_ ” the voice snapped. “Bad.”

The pressure didn’t relent. Flashes of light danced in the dark before Dean’s eyes the longer it was held. His lungs ached for air and the strain on his neck and spine made his body scream for mercy, but he couldn’t make a sound.

Then the weight was gone and so was the pressure on the chain. Dean flopped back down face first and gagged, gasping to breathe. Through the pounding of his pulse in his ears, he heard a hissing sound and then the chain was being yanked again. He was pulled off the cot and dragged across the icy floor, stumbling in the dim light and struggling to get to his feet. Before he caught his footing, he slammed into a wall and sank to the tiled floor under a spray of ice cold water.

The shock forced a strangled yell from his bruised throat. He scrambled to move out from under the spray, but another sharp tug on the chain stopped him. His head snapped up and he saw the man padlock the chain to another hook in the wall. The tiny amount of slack he was allowed didn’t give him room to move away from the water or even to stand. He could only sit and shiver.

Without another word, the man left.

Dean frantically searched the walls around him, looking for the controls or a pipe or anything that would allow him to stop the water pouring down on him. There was nothing. He remembered being puzzled by that at first. Now, he realized that the water must be controlled from the panel by the stairs, just as the lights and the air conditioning were.

Oh God, the air conditioning.

Dean stretched to the limit of the chain and managed to get just enough of his head out from under the spray to listen to the rest of the room. Yeah, there it was. The hiss of cold air pumping in through the vents from the ceiling above.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Dean screamed and slammed a fist already going numb from the cold into the wall.

All he’d had to do was shut the fuck up and not move. Now, he was going to freeze to death all because he couldn’t let some creep get his rocks off. He slammed his fist into the wall again, morbidly wondering if he’d get the chance to feel it later.

***

The water shut off.

Dean couldn’t lift his head from where it rested against the wall. He’d wedged himself into the corner as tightly as he could, trying to block some of the stinging streams of freezing water from reaching his skin. It did little good. The water might have been blocked from striking part of his back, but the tile on his skin was just as painful. 

He barely pried open his eyes and saw the man standing there. He was dressed fully, staring down at Dean with a look of intense concentration. 

“S-s-sorry,” he managed to murmur between chattering teeth. Sitting under that water, he’d sworn that if he got another chance, he’d play along. He’d play the part perfectly. Just one more chance, please.

A small smile appeared on the man’s face. “I believe you.”

He reached over to unlock the padlock and then moved to pull Dean to his feet. Dean’s legs wobbled like he’d been on a weekend bender, but he managed to make his way back to the cot with the man’s help. Sasha knelt nearby, still naked, head down. Dean ignored her. All that he could focus on was the pile of blankets he saw sitting at the end of the mattress.

The man sat and pulled Dean down onto the cot, arranging Dean’s shivering body in his lap. He’d been an actual child the last time anyone held him in their lap this way. He didn’t like it, but he’d sure as hell allow it. Right now, playing the part was all that mattered.

A heavy blanket was pulled around him and Dean couldn’t hold back a sigh of relief. His icy body sank blissfully into the warmth of the man’s body trapped beneath the thick cover. 

“There. That’s better, isn’t it?” 

Dean nodded, huddling in closer. He didn’t have to dig deep to display gratitude. There was very little he wanted more in that moment than to be warm. Actually, just one thing he wanted more, but since he didn’t hear the rumble of the Impala’s engine outside, he’d have to take this instead.

“Y-yes, m-master.”

“Good boy,” the man murmured, carding a hand through Dean’s dripping hair. His other arm held Dean firmly against him. “I _want_ to be good to you. You can see that, can’t you?”

He nodded again, not sure how much of an answer he was required to give. It didn’t seem to matter. The man kept talking. 

“It hurts me when I have to punish you.” Dean felt lips pressed against his temple. He closed his eyes and stayed still, the same mantra _play along, play along, play along_ chanting endlessly in his head. “You’ll be good for me now, won’t you?”

“Yes, master,” Dean whispered without hesitation. A good pet. He was pulled in closer, then the hand in his hair was gone. Dean heard the man snap his fingers and a moment later, the arm around his shoulders tugged gently. “Here. Sit up now.”

Dean sat up straighter, eyes opening to find the man holding a coffee mug in his free hand. Sasha knelt beside the man’s leg. Dean put up no resistance when he was pulled to sit with his back against the man’s chest and the mug was held to his lips. He could tell by the scent that it was not coffee, but some kind of broth. It didn’t matter to Dean. It was hot and as the first swallow hit his stomach, he realized how hungry he was. Until then, the all consuming cold was all he could think about.

“Ah, ah,” the man scolded gently when Dean’s hands rose to hold the mug. Slowly, Dean returned his hands to his lap and let the man continue to feed him, carefully sipping from the mug each time it was brought to his lips. “That’s my good boy.”

Soon, Dean found himself drowsing. Cocooned in warmth, stomach nearly full for the first time in God only knew how long, his eyelids sank shut and his mind drifted. He couldn’t find it in himself to care that he was being cradled and fed like a baby, or that he was naked, chained, and more vulnerable than he’d been in ages. He didn’t care even when a hand smoothed down over his body and took hold of his cock, stroking very slowly.

“That’s it,” the man crooned as Dean’s cock began to harden under his touch. The mug was pressed to his lips again and Dean sipped even as his legs spread wider in unconscious invitation. “My sweet boy. All you have to do is let me take care of you.”

Some part of him -- the part that always, _always_ fought -- wanted him to react. To slap the hands away. But, then there was the part that was still chilled, scared, and just wanted to be safe for a minute. To _be_ cared for. Even if it was so very fucked up.

He didn’t fight.

This time, when his hips rocked, he wasn’t hit or scolded. The man breathed heated encouragement into Dean’s ear, his hand holding tighter and moving faster. Dean’s head tipped to the side and his eyes opened to slits, looking dazedly at the man jerking him off. The mug was gone and the hand that had held it was still warm when it cradled Dean’s jaw and drew him in for a kiss rough with teeth and desire. Dean allowed it. He sank into the cacophony of sensations, surrendering without protest to the rough handling. The tightening ache low in his belly warned that he wasn’t going to last much longer. 

“Please,” he gasped when their mouths parted and he could breathe again.

“Please, what?” The man asked, voice still gentle even as he bit another claiming bruise into the side of Dean’s neck.

“I’m going to come,” he groaned softly, hips jerking into a particularly wicked twist of the man’s wrist. 

There was a definite challenge in the man’s voice when he replied, “Oh, are you?”

Dean’s breath hitched and he whined softly, struggling to find the right words. _Play along,_ his own voice in his head reminded him.

“Please, master,” he tried again, voice strangled with the effort to hold back. “May I come?”

Warm breath blew across his skin and he felt the man’s chest rumble against his back as he chuckled. “Very good,” he praised and Dean absolutely _did not_ feel a jolt at that. “Yes, sweet boy. Come for me.”

That was all it took and Dean’s back arched, hips thrusting into that tight fist. The climax had all the force of days of pent up fear and stress behind it. It felt like it wrenched through him, shattering everything in its path. Dean’s body went boneless in its wake. 

Then the twin sensations of relief and guilt crashed into him before the man’s hand even stopped moving.

Dean was gently moved off to the side and laid down on the cot. He felt the man tuck the blanket in around him and a gentle kiss was pressed to his forehead. “You did very good. Behavior like this will earn you so many good things. I promise you.” 

Dean swallowed hard, forcing himself to peek up at the man through half-lidded eyes. “Thank you, master.”

He was rewarded with a smile and another soft kiss on his lips. Then the man stood and Dean closed his eyes, hoping to be left alone to collect himself. 

A jarring thump on the mattress made him snap his eyes open again. Sasha lay on her stomach where she’d been slammed down. Her face was turned to him and he looked into dull, empty eyes as the man knelt between her legs, pushed his sleep pants down to free his cock, and thrust roughly inside her. A whisper of a breath from her parted lips was all the sound she made and she never moved while the man fucked her. His hands held tightly to her hips so that Dean could see the skin going white under his fingers. He slammed into her, his pace uncaring for anything but his own pleasure.

It couldn’t have gone on long, Dean held his breath nearly the entire time, but it seemed like an eternity. The man’s thrusts became more erratic and shorter, his panting breaths harsher. Then he came with a deep groan, head thrown back, eyes closed in bliss. If he hadn’t been an abusive monster forcing himself on a helpless girl, he might have looked hot in that final moment. All Dean could feel was horror.

For a long moment the only sound in the room the man’s heavy breathing. Then he opened his eyes and withdrew from her, sitting back on his heels, then moving to stand and straighten his clothes.

“Clean yourself up,” he told her casually. “And the boy. I want you both presentable for dinner.”

“Yes, master,” Sasha answered dutifully, without hesitation. There was nothing in her voice but eagerness to please and Dean felt the corners of his eyes prickle at the sound.

_Play the part,_ he told himself frantically, swallowing hard and squeezing his eyes shut. _Play the part, play the part, play the part…_


	7. A Little Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know those signs on long bridges warning that this is the last place to exit before you're stuck driving for miles and can't escape so you'd better be prepared? This is both a very short chapter to give a little glimpse into what John and Sam are doing to find Dean and just such a sign. The next chapter is ready to go and will be posted right behind this one. It is full of Very Bad Things. Please heed the warning signs and take the exit if you need to. Thank you!
> 
> This story is still un-Beta'd and all mistake are still my own fault.

It took just one more day to realize that he needed help. John _hated_ calling for help, but he had one son missing and one terrified he’d never see his brother again. After fruitlessly chasing his tail until he was forced to admit he had no leads, he’d finally made the call to Bobby Singer. 

Singer wasted no time laying into him for, well, everything. The hunting, the obsession, the poor parenting; John took it all silently, if not gracefully. They’d find Dean, then he’d have some things to say to Bobby. For now, he’d just grind his teeth and get through it.

The local police were helpful enough. John had access to all their files and he made lists of missing persons cases in town and the surrounding areas. He also made lists of people who’d had violent run-ins with the law or those that might have escalated to true violence from minor assaults or fights. John took those. Bobby and Sam worked through the missing persons cases.

Sitting at the table in their motel room, John looked across to one of the bed where Sam hunched over files and more files. He didn’t think the kid so much as touched a textbook in days. Or slept or eaten really, either, given the dark circles under his eyes set into overly pale skin.

He was going to lose both his boys at this rate.

“Sam,” he called and waited for the shaggy head to lift, bleary eyes taking a few extra seconds to focus in on him. “Hit the rack. It’s past three a.m.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Bobby’s head lift from his own notes. Judgy old grouch.

“I’m almost through these,” Sam said and waved a hand at the stack of folders in front of him.

“They’ll keep for a few hours.”

“Dad!”

“Sam!” Stubborn teenage defiance met cool determination and John saw defiance waver first. He’d been handling Sam with kid gloves since Dean’s disappearance, but tonight he was putting his foot down. “Sleep. Now.”

The kid made a production of slamming the folders shut and throwing his notes aside. There was plenty of stomping and huffing, but John let it all slide. As long as Sam was complying, he’d suffer a little bit of noise and attitude.

Just minutes later, Sam was softly snoring and John could see the days of stress and worry gone from his face and posture. He knew he’d made the right call.

He was so sure of it that he didn’t even roll his eyes too hard when Bobby nodded his approval and went back to work.

 _Hang on, Dean,_ he thought silently as he bent back to his own reading. _We’re going to find you. I promise._


	8. Fall and Fracture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha takes a risk that could backfire on them both and Dean learns that even pretending submission to a monster could leave irreparable scars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains Very Bad Things. Rape, coerced drug use, victim blaming, self-loathing. Just a lot of bad things. Please heed the warnings and steer clear if this is not your thing.

Dean had been permitted a brief but thankfully warm shower. Afterward, Sasha left him and disappeared upstairs, presumably to do the same thing. He lay back down, stomach churning with revulsion. He hated them all… the man, Sasha, but above all he hated himself. He shouldn’t have left the hotel room that night. Shouldn’t have gotten drunk. Certainly shouldn’t have gotten drunk with a stranger. 

_Keep your wits_. John Winchester’s number one rule behind _watch out for Sammy_. God, he’d fucked up. He’d fucked up so bad. 

Dean’s breath hitched and he angrily swiped at stinging eyes. The longing he felt every time he thought of his brother and his father was drowning him. He’d have given anything to just sit and listen to them bitch at each other again. 

“Hurry, guys, please,” he whispered to himself through a painfully tight throat. On the heels of that thought came a rush of shame. What he’d allowed the man to do to him was bad enough, but what he’d allowed to happen to Sasha was unforgivable. If his father ever found him, would he find out what Dean had done? He was supposed to _protect people_ , for fuck’s sake.

He’d do better. There had to be a way to survive this and get them both out. Yeah, she lured him into this nightmare and there was a small part of him that hated her for it, but it was obvious that she was deeply messed up. God only knew how long the man had kept her. Tortured her. Every person had limits. Dean prayed hard that he didn’t discover his own here.

The sound of the door brought him back to the present and he peered up toward the stairs. Sasha rushed down them. She was naked, still, and freshly showered. Her hair hung in damp waves over her skin. In another time and place, he’d have been unable to look away. Now, he just wanted her to _go_ away.

She knelt by the cot and held a trembling hand out to him. In her palm sat a tiny, plastic cup like the ones that came with cough syrup bottles. The cup was nearly full with clear liquid. 

“Take this,” she whispered urgently to him.

“What is it?” He asked, sitting up and reaching hesitantly for it.

“Water and a few drops of the drug I gave you the first night.”

Dean snatched his hand back and glared at her. “What the fuck would I want that for?”

Sasha flinched and glanced back over her shoulder to the stairs. She was jumpier than Dean had ever seen her. 

“ _Take it!_ ” She hissed and held it closer to him. “While there’s time. I don’t want to die, do you?”

He stared at her, reaching again for the cup. “What are you talking about?”

“Master is going to have you tonight or we’re both going to suffer. You’re still too untrained. You’ll struggle or say something.” She nodded to the cup and he looked at it uncertainly. “This will help you submit.”

“You don’t think he’ll notice when I pass out on him?” Dean snarled.

“It’s not that much. Only a drop or two. You’ll just float, not sleep.” 

“Swell,” he sighed, feeling himself deflate, but he lifted the cup and drank it down. There was no good option before him. If he didn’t take it, then, yeah… he’d most likely put up some kind of fight. It was in his DNA. Taking it, though… that felt like the coward’s way. “You sound really familiar with the stuff.”

“I’ve had it many times.” She confirmed. The look of pure relief on her face was almost too much as she took the little cup from him and scurried away to hide it behind a riser on the stairs. “Be still and stay relaxed. We don’t want it to kick in too soon. You still have to get through dinner.”

“Thanks, Nurse Ratched, I’ll remember that.” 

If she got the sarcasm, she didn’t react. Just nodded and went back up the stairs, closing the heavy door behind her.

***

A short time later, Sasha returned first with a chair that looked to be part of a dining room set and again with a foldable tray table. Both were set up outside the red lines on the floor. Dean sat up as the man walked down the stairs. He was barefoot and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.

 _Casual dining,_ Dean thought and just barely managed to resist rolling his eyes as he pushed himself slowly off the cot to a kneeling position. At the fringe of his field of vision, he saw the man smile his creepy, fatherly smile of approval. The drugs had kicked in enough by then that Dean managed not to shiver at the look.

The man sat and said nothing. Seconds ticked by before Sasha reappeared and placed a plate and wine glass on the tray table. Sasha then stepped over to the control panel by the stairs and Dean held his breath when she pushed a button. The sound of jazz music filled the previously quiet space. It was all piano, sax, and cello... mellow and almost soothing. Under other circumstances, Dean might have hated it, but tonight he figured anything was better than kneeling in silence while a crazy man stared at him. 

That was exactly what the man did. Between bites of some pasta dish and sips of a syrupy red wine, he stared. It was creepy as hell, but the sensation of his skin crawling was muted and distant.

Everything around him was so well muted that he missed the moment the man finished eating. Missed the table and dishes being cleared away. The volume of the music lowering finally brought Dean’s attention back and he peered up through his lashes at the man still sitting before him. 

“You’re doing very well,” the man said and Dean hated that the relief he saw on Sasha’s face was nearly the same relief he felt.

“Thank you, master,” he answered. Just playing along. He could do this.

“It seems I made the right choice after all.” The man got to his feet and stepped over the lines to stand directly in front of Dean. Dean stared at the pale feet and didn’t move. There was a voice in his head demanding he _do something_ , but he ignored it. Until he had some sort of advantage, fighting back was a suicide run.

A hand cradled Dean’s face and his gaze was lifted to meet the man’s eyes. He felt the man’s thumb tracing gently along the line of his cheekbone.

“You’re going to be very good for me now, aren’t you?”

Dean swallowed, fighting a wave of disgust. “Yes, master.”

“That’s my good boy.” The man released his face and reached for the button on his jeans. Dean wasn’t stoned enough to miss the bulge that had been staring him in the face and he knew what was expected of him.

As soon as the man’s fly was open and his cock free (no undies and no pubes… classy), Dean leaned in to take him into his mouth. He heard a sharp intake of breath from above. Surprise? Hell, Dean could surprise him really good here. It wasn’t a skill he bragged about often, but he could suck a guy’s brains out through his dick if he really put his mind to it. Right now, his mind was solidly fixed on getting this guy off and away from him as quickly as possible.

He worked his tongue along the shaft and sucked for all he was worth. Tried not to think about who it was fucking his mouth or where he was. The man panted and breathed startled praises, but Dean wasn’t listening.

He tried thinking of the last guy he’d spent the night with. Aaron? Something or other. They met two hunts ago while Dean was working as a bartender to make ends meet while the case dragged on. The guy had been a mechanic a little older than Dean with a body built for hauling heavy machinery around and pulling engines from cars. When their time was short and they could only hook up briefly in the back room of the bar, Dean had often opted for blowing the guy. He liked it, he was good at it, and it always made Aaron very appreciative later. 

“Slower, now,” the man commanded as Dean pulled back to the head of his cock and laved it with his tongue before sucking him down again as far as he could. Dean only half heard him. His hand curled around the base of the man’s cock and he jacked the remaining length in time with his sucking. 

A hand tight and painful in his hair stopped him. Dean froze with the shaft deep in his throat, tears prickling his eyes as he fought to maintain control on his gag reflex. He looked up into the man’s flushed face.

“I’m going to excuse this,” the man panted, staring hard down at Dean, “As over enthusiasm. Ignore my orders again and I won’t be so lenient.”

To punctuate his point, the man thrust his hips, shoving his cock a bit deeper and making Dean choke. Tears spilled from his eyes and down his face in response. The man seemed to take it for contrition and slowly released him, letting him pull back to cough and catch his breath.

The man’s erection hadn’t flagged a bit. If anything, it was even more prominent, an even angrier shade of red where it stood out against the man’s pale skin.

“Lie down, face down.” 

Dean took a shaky breath and moved to comply. The pleasant floatyness was still there, although fear rippled along his nerves just beneath it. Part of him really hoped he’d get to just suck the guy off and delay this for one more night. One more night to hold onto what was left of his sanity.

He stretched out on the cot and took another steadying breath. Sasha had been right. As keyed up as he was even with the drug, he definitely couldn’t have submitted without it. 

Fabric rustled and Dean saw the man’s t-shirt and jeans hit the floor. Then a weight settled on the cot between his thighs, the man’s knees pushing them to spread wider. He wasn’t at all surprised this time when a fingers pressed against his hole. What did surprise him was the cool, slick feeling of lube. Dean didn’t know when he’d brought that out, but he was immeasurably grateful for it. He’d done it under-lubed before and it hadn’t been a great experience. He couldn’t imagine going entirely without.

“I’d wager a year’s pay that you’re not a virgin to this,” the man said almost conversationally as his finger pressed inside Dean, thrusting and twisting to open the tight muscle. Dean bit his lip, not sure how to answer. “I can’t decide if that pleases or infuriates me.”

“I’m sorry, master,” he whispered finally and winced when a second blunt finger was thrust inside to join the first. Sooner than was comfortable, but not unbearable. Nothing an obedient pet would complain about. 

_Play the part. Play the part._

“That’s alright, sweet boy, I know exactly how to fix it.”

Dean felt his body tensing and forced himself to relax. He focused on the drug’s warm buzz still working to lull him and did his damnedest not to think about the third finger now twisting and scissoring into him. 

“How, master?”

“Simple,” the man breathed. His fingers slipped out and immediately were replaced with his cock in one slow, deep thrust. Dean whined at the intrusion and then gasped as the man’s full weight came to rest on him. It wasn’t enough, apparently, for the man to be balls deep inside of him. No, he also needed to crush the breath from his lungs, as well.

Dean struggled for air. Meanwhile, all he could hear was the blood pounding in his head and the man’s lusty, breathy moans of pleasure in his ear.

“I’m going to fuck you so thoroughly and so often,” the man continued as though he hadn’t stopped. “That all thought and memory of any other man or woman will be gone from your mind. All you’ll be able to do is beg for my cock. And then beg for release when you think you’ll die if you can’t come. And then beg to rest when you think you can’t take any more.”

He lifted up on his arms and Dean took a ragged, desperate breath that was pushed right back out when the man started fucking him hard and fast. 

“But, I won’t let you rest,” he breathed heavily against Dean’s ear. “If I can’t fuck you enough myself, I’ll use toys. I’ll use the girl.”

_No_ , Dean thought desperately. _Leave her out of it_. 

The man’s thrusting got harder, faster. He gripped Dean’s forearms until Dean felt bruises forming. He bit his lip to stifle any sound.

“Wouldn’t you like that?” The man cooed and sucked hard at a spot on the side of Dean’s neck. He pulled back to breathe, his pace never wavering. “You liked her before. She was so soft and warm… you could get lost inside her, couldn’t you? I used to, when she was new.”

Dean’s stomach turned and he heard himself make a sound that was suspiciously like a sob. He swallowed again, struggling to hold down a wave of hysteria he felt building. It lapped against his mental barriers like flood waves at a levee. 

_No, no, no, no…_

All at once, the man stopped. Dean’s breath hitched and he froze as well, unsure of what was happening. It wasn’t over. He could still feel the man rock hard and deep inside him. He just wasn’t moving.

“I asked you a question,” the man whispered into Dean’s other ear, shifting his weight onto one arm.

“Yes, master.” Dean’s voice was a barely there whisper and he could hear the tears in it. Please, God, why couldn’t this man just finish and get off of him?

“That’s better.” Dean felt the man lick a stripe from between his shoulder blades up along the back of his neck. With any of his chosen lovers, a little neck action would have gotten his motor running without delay. Right now, it just made him want to scream.

The man’s weight lifted from Dean’s body and his cock slipped free. Before Dean could even think of a question, the man said, “Turn over.”

It took some effort, maneuvering around with the chain at his throat and the man still kneeling between his legs with his lube-slick erection shiny under the harsh basement lighting. It was graceless, but he managed, lying awkwardly on his back, head turned to the wall, trying desperately not to give way to actual tears. 

“Look at me.”

Dean complied, teeth clenched so hard he thought he might break them.

The man smiled that creepy-ass smile again and Dean watched him take a tube of gel lubricant from nearby on the cot and squeeze some into his palm. Then he took hold of Dean’s unhappy dick and started to stroke him. His touch was surprisingly gentle. Dean hated every second of it.

“There now, doesn’t that feel better?” The man purred and squeezed him gently at the base, sliding his slick hand up along the shaft to tease the head. Dean’s self loathing reached previously unknown depths when his cock began to respond to the treatment, lengthening and hardening under the man’s touch. “I knew you’d like this.”

Dean closed his eyes for just a few seconds, just as long as he dared, trying to get himself under control. Then he reopened them and forced himself to meet the man’s gaze. He was _not_ enjoying this. His dick just couldn’t tell the difference between a lover’s hand and a monster’s. There was a joke in there somewhere about little heads, but he didn’t feel much like laughing.

The slow, gentle touch was soothing in spite of Dean’s hate. He felt himself sinking back into the drug’s lull, despite his still slick, sore hole and the sick feeling in the bottom of his stomach. His body was happy to just relax and feel good.

“You’re going to like this even more,” the man whispered and Dean found himself focusing in on him again, puzzled.

Panic replaced the puzzlement when he saw Sasha standing by the cot. She shifted onto the mattress and without hesitation, positioned herself to sink down onto his cock with one fluid motion.

“Please!” Dean gasped, tears once again springing to his eyes and his hands reaching to grip her hips tightly. He didn’t want this. More than anything else that had happened to him, he didn’t want _this_.

This crazy, helpless, damaged girl didn’t know what she was doing. He has absolutely no business fucking her. 

“Put your hands down,” the man snapped. His hands rested on Sasha’s shoulders and there was a look of fear in her eyes that told Dean everything he needed to know about what would happen if he put up a fight now.

He dropped his hands.

“Good,” the man said and gave Sasha’s shoulders a squeeze. “Ride him hard.”

Sasha had no hesitation. She obeyed right away. Her hips rose and fell, slamming her body down onto Dean’s again and again. Her tight, hot pussy gripped his cock with every motion. It felt so good and Dean knew without a doubt that he was going straight to hell for it.

A long minute passed and then fingers pressed inside him once more and Dean stopped trying to fight the tears when he felt those fingers nudging against his prostate. Bolts of pleasure shot through him. His chest hitched with a sob even as his hips moved to thrust down into those fingers and up into the hot, wet heat milking his cock. He was lost, now. So lost.

“Off,” the man breathed after what seemed like an eternity and he pushed Sasha to the side with his free hand, wedging her between Dean’s body and the wall. He continued fingerfucking the boy, his other hand taking over now where Sasha had been. 

Dean continued to move, thrusting helplessly into those hands. At some point, his face had turned away from the man again and he’d closed his eyes. When the fingers withdrew and the man’s cock slipped inside him again, Dean continued to move, his body on auto-pilot, tears still slipping down his cheeks even as his legs wrapped around the man’s waist.

“Yesss, that’s it,” the man breathed. “My sweet boy. Look at me, now.”

His eyes opened and he turned to look into his tormenter’s eyes. The bliss he saw there made him want to be sick. The man’s other hand was still jacking Dean off, rapidly pushing him toward an orgasm he did not want. The man fucked him harder and he fucked back.

_Playing the part. Just… playing the part._

_Just..._

Dean felt a feather light touch and from the corner of his eye saw Sasha’s hand close gently over his. Her expression was confused. Almost concerned. 

The man’s thrusting became more and more erratic. The man came with a throaty groan, grinding into Dean with circles that lengthened and slowed as his cock pulsed deep inside him and then began to go soft. 

“Come for me,” the man breathed, looking down at Dean with glassy eyes and a pleased smile. 

He came. 

It was slow this time. A volcano eruption rather than a gunshot. He hated every second. Hated every rush of pleasure that zinged along his nerve endings. His body twisted and his legs tightened around the man’s waist, forcing the softening shaft of his cock deeper inside. 

When it was over, he lay in a shivering heap, his legs slipping down from around the man. His body was slick with sweat and lube and come. He desperately wanted to just die right there on the spot.

He didn’t.

“My sweet boy,” the man murmured again, bending to kiss Dean sweetly on the lips. “That was beautiful. I’m so going to enjoy watching you fall apart for me again and again and again.”

Dean’s lips trembled against his. He didn’t have any fight left in him, just loathing. Sasha’s hand on his was long gone and he watched as the man, then she climbed over him and off the cot.

“Sleep well. You’ll need your strength,” the man promised, then walked up the steps without looking back.

Sasha bent to collect the man’s clothes, shot Dean another puzzled look, then hurried up the stairs to follow. Seconds later, all the lights went out.

Dean took a deep breath.

His chest hitched.

He shook his head, throat going impossibly tight.

His breath hiccuped out of him and then the sobs crashed down on him. His chest heaved and ached with the tightness. Dean turned onto his side and curled in on himself tightly. All around him, he smelled sex and shame, with the sticky reminders all over and inside him. He’d have to sleep that way tonight, covered in the filth. 

If he slept at all.

God, please, don’t let him dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: I hope this goes without saying, but just in case... I, in no way, ever blame a victim of rape for what is done to them. In this story, Dean is a scared kid with a massively over-developed sense of self-responsibility. He's a walking, talking bundle of self-doubt and loathing. It does _not_ reflect the author's personal opinion.


End file.
